


He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

by inusagi



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Falling In Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inusagi/pseuds/inusagi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack suspects that Ianto is in love with him. . Day 23 of the July TW Oneshot challenge (Posted late). Janto Fluff!</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: If I owned Torchwood, I’d be considerably less poor than I am now. So. Yeah. Not mine.

“Suspecting and knowing are not the same.”   
― Rick Riordan, _the Lightning Thief_

*.*.*

Even though we never talk about it, I suspect that Ianto is in love with me. Really in love with me, not just enamoured by my rugged good looks and irresistible charm.

I don’t think the words’ll ever pass his lips, though. I can’t quite place my finger on why, but Ianto is surprisingly awkward about such things.

Sometimes, I think he wasn’t hugged enough as a child. It’s one of those things I’ve never understood about this time period, the way people scold you for being _too_ affectionate with your children. I didn’t even notice it until Alice—she was still Melissa then—was a baby. People would stop me and say “She’s gonna be spoilt if you hold her all the time. She needs to learn to calm herself!”

From what I’ve noticed, it’s worse with boys, because, in Alex Hopkins’ eloquent words, “Nobody wants their boy to grow up to be a nancy. Best they man up early.”

It wasn’t like that back home. Affection was as abundant as the sand—and we lived on a desert. I think I was three before my feet ever even hit the ground. Babies were passed from parent to parent, to aunties and uncles, grandparents, family friends. I don’t think anyone even though about it. We were a close-knit community and those were dangerous times. Children were nothing but a blessing and my people made sure everyone knew it.

So I can’t tell if Ianto is just love-starved by my own standards or if he really was neglected. I have a better chance of turning invisible than being told, sadly. I don’t think he’s ever told me a single truthful thing about his childhood. That really doesn’t reassure me that he had a happy childhood, though.

My other theory is whatever hang-up people seem to have with same-sex relationships these days. At least it’s not illegal anymore (And _damn_ , was that ever a hassle.), but it’s still one of those things people titter about from behind their hands. Ianto has finally worked though the _Oh no, Sir. The others can’t know_ bit, but he’s still hung up on nobody thinking he’s the _girl_. Even me.

I tease him for it all the time. I’ve tried to be delicate about it, reassure him that being into other blokes doesn’t mean he’s not a man, that I still consider him the BAMFiest of secret agents.

Then I tried to be…less delicate. “ _Neither_ of us is the girl,” I told him. “That’s sort of the point.”

No dice, so now I just make fun of him. It’s ridiculous the labels these people feel like they have to put on themselves. But I do think it’s a big part of the reason he won’t say he loves me. What’s girlier than talking about your _feelings_?

I like to think he _shows_ it, though. It’s not anything big—no grand romantic gestures (and I still haven’t gotten any damn flowers! I really am going to send some to myself.)—but a dozen small things. If—well, when I die, he stays with me or gives me a hug when he finds out. After that year with Saxon, just that little bit of affection meant more than anything else had in decades.

He brews coffee the way I like it while he whines about my lack of taste buds or appreciation for the “subtle nuisances of a well-brewed cup.” He orders what I want for lunch, even though (especially when?) it’s meant to be Owen’s day on the rota. He makes sure his flat is stocked with all of the unimportant things I prefer to use—my hair gel, the brand of coffee creamer I like, the ice cream he won’t touch—even though he should tell me I can damn well buy my own stuff.

He traces his name on my skin when he thinks I’m asleep.

Sometimes, _I_ just want to blurt it out, to tell him just how very much he means to me before I can’t anymore. But…well, compared to me, Ianto’s just so ephemeral. Part of me—a big part of me—is afraid that if I said it, if I tell Ianto that I love him, I’ll be tempting fate. After decades of losing everyone I’ve cared about, I think I’ve started to feel like my love is the kiss of death.

So this will have to be enough.

I suspect Ianto loves me. I believe he suspects I love him. It’s not as good as knowing for sure, but it’s what we’ve got.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The word was “knowing.” I was originally going to have this in the reverse, with Ianto waffling about whether or not Jack loves him, but really, I dislike the idea of Ianto being so insecure and I don’t think there’s a way to play it off where he’s not. Jack was much more cooperative. Thanks for reading!


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